


his jacket was a deep sky blue, it was i do declare

by Kt_fairy



Series: gathering primroses [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Domestic Fluff, FJ weight issues, Happy Ending, M/M, Making Love, Oral Sex, Post-Canon Fix-It, Sex Toys, Trans Character, Trans Francis, minor body image concern, take a measuring tape and make it sexy, victorian tailoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28150713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: “Now, that is a threatening sight,” James said as he looked Francis over, folding the newspaper in his lap. "I feel as if I am at risk of getting duty owing if I don't measure up."ORHaving survived the ordeal of being known, why not survive the ordeal of having nice things.for my TerrorBingo prompt -Linen
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: gathering primroses [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2062230
Comments: 15
Kudos: 44





	his jacket was a deep sky blue, it was i do declare

**Author's Note:**

> To the fandom of historical clothing enthusiasts, I hope the process of measurement taking, let alone Victorian measurements, rings true. (Which, I learnt in a Bernadette Banner video I cannot find again, was done my marking points on a paper tape that was then folded etc for half measurements rather than make the tailor do maths).
> 
> Thanks again to Lenka, for the idea for the OG fic, and thanks to MsKingBean for keeping me (dis)honest and making sense. 
> 
> I wrote some of this while listening to the Mr Midshipman Easy audiobook, so if some is a bit bouncy and verbose and 'Marryat' for my usual style, then that's why. 
> 
> See end notes for the body issues tag if that's a worry for you.

James’ once sharp memory - which had seen him out of half a dozen scrapes over the years, while also scraping him through a few exams as well - had suffered the lasting effects of managing _not_ to die in the Arctic. It existed alongside missing teeth (and a lisp to go with them), a bad leg, an almost blind left eye, and a shocking diminishment in weight. Which, considering all that he had survived, was not all that bad a state to be in really.

Mr. Goodsir - who was now safely back in his Edinburgh museum - and his wise brother Robert were studying the effects of the lead solder and scurvy on the body, and had asked James to record all that he forgot. A puzzling request to be sure, but James would not question eminent scientists with more sense than he.

He used discretion of course. And, thank goodness, he remembered all that occurred behind the closed bedroom doors in the London apartments he shared with Francis. His absent-mindedness came in the form of sending out two letters because he had forgotten writing the first, or losing track of which coins were which, or, as in the instance that shall shortly follow, needing his mind firmly jogged as to the particulars of certain conversations.

On this cold, bright afternoon, James was flopped out in the armchair before the fire in his room, feet propped up on the mantelpiece as he flicked through The Times while waiting for the copper kettle to boil. The patterned curtains were pulled tight against the brittle autumn day, the gaslight and the low burning fire casting their orange glow that muddied the pattern of the Persian rug and made the simple room feel like it belonged to some reclusive European count.

He had been in the process of making himself tea and toast when Francis had returned from a lunch with Colonel Sabine at the Royal Society. He had walked into James’ bedroom to say hello and kiss his temple and so forth, all while telling him about the lecture he had been asked to give, accepted James’ offer of a cup of tea, and then promptly walked back out again. 

The pottering about between rooms, without formality or excusing oneself, was a domestic comfort that James enjoyed far more than his old restlessness would ever allow. Familiar, dare he say casual, in that things hardly needed saying to one another. So James counted himself rather surprised when Francis came back into his bedroom holding one of their landlady’s paper measuring tapes. James looked at him while he looked awkwardly at James, tugging down the front of his old, burnished silk waistcoat, which sat so loosely about his middle these days.

Nothing really felt like it fit these days. Both in the abstract sense, in that the survivors of the expedition (Mr Blanky being the exception, of course) were no longer the men who had built the lives and held onto the dreams they were returning to. And in the most banal; of old clothes, cavalierly packed away by their owner on the assumption they might be home in a year or two, now six years out of style and made for younger, healthier men. 

The North American wild had left none of them as much more than emaciated shades of their former selves, the health regained over their winter in Fort Resolution lost again during the arduous three month trek to Hudson’s Bay; the one hundred portages almost killing James a second time, leaving him so feverish and insensate he could not remember their voyage home with Ross on the _Enterprise._

But that was then. A Tartarus survived. And what lay before James now was the mystery of the measuring tape in dear Francis’ hand.

“Now, that is a threatening sight,” James said as he looked Francis over, folding the newspaper in his lap. "I feel as if I am at risk of getting duty owing if I don't measure up."

"We spoke of this two -" Francis sighed when the pun landed, a smile catching the corners of his mouth. His shoulders shifted inside his soft grey frock coat which rather hung off his broad shoulders, then started again. "James, two days ago we spoke of this," he said plainly, not giving any more information as the doctors had said it would be best if James was encouraged to remember things for himself.

"Oh," James frowned, feet dropping to the floor in an ungainly fashion as he frowned at Francis, who was conspicuously trying not to fold his hands stiffly against the small of his back while he waited for James’ mind to creak into action. Which, when it finally did, had him saying " _oh!"_ again, rather unimaginatively.

The conversation had in fact occurred _three_ days ago, after James had returned from visiting the Coningham's. He never needed a reason to call on his brother, but that day James had crossed the wilds of Regent’s Park to collect the items of his wardrobe that Mrs Coningham had insisted on taking in for him. She still made her own dresses on occasion, despite her husband’s wealth, and used those skills to carefully sew clever tucks and darts into James’ waistcoats and trousers so they might be let out when (or if) he began to gain weight again. Looking to tide him over until next year's fashion plates were printed, when he would hopefully have regained enough condition to make a new wardrobe - of silks and satins and fine Cotswold wool - worthwhile.

He had been making rather a sad figure, walking about in clothes built for a healthier, more robust man than he was now; a thing he was most conscious of, especially when those surplus inches of fabric he had been hiding behind were folded away in freshly tailored waistcoats.

Francis sat back from his correspondence when James breezed into their rooms, and proclaimed, “well, don’t you look like the talk of the town!” And despite himself, and the vanity he had left to gasp its last on the ice, James had been childishly pleased to hear it.

There had followed a conversation that included compliments ( _you should be handsome no matter what, James_ ), honesties ( _I know something of taking refuge in clothes. After all, an officer’s uniform can make one almost invisible from the neck down), and_ sweetness, (“ _you are allowed a little joy and comfort also,”_ Francis had said, James replying _, “I should say that you are my joy and my comfort, if you would not roll your eyes as you are doing right this instant!”)._ And then James had passed on Elizabeth’s kind offer to do the same work on Francis’ clothes as she had done on James’.

Francis had muttered and demurred as expected; both because of his character, and because of his life long discomfort with submitting to being looked over by the knowing eyes of a tailor, and having strange hands straying over the _contrary_ (as he put it) places on his person in order to measure him. He had looked at James, murmured some more, then with a great sigh - and a mournful look at the clothes that were sagging on him - asked James if he would help measure him when the time came. 

And what could a man in love do, but say yes? 

"Thank God I didn’t have to spell it out,” Francis said in the face of James’ sudden recollection. “I can not continue to cower from tailor’s shops or myself,” he said as much to himself as to James. “Nor can I allow the personal disorder of the unhappy, uncomfortable, wallowing man I was before the expedition.”

“Quite right,” James set the kettle away from the fire as he levered himself to his feet, crossing to Francis who was watching him intently. “It is only the two of us,” he said as he touched his fingers to Francis’ hand that was clutching the tape, “and we’ve done stranger things than take your upper arm measurements, eh?”

“I don’t need you to talk me into it,” Francis tried not to grumble, always hating to be the centre of a fuss. “It is nothing more than having some clothes taken in.”

“Of course,” James nodded decisively. He turned in a swirl of his own well fitting frock coat, collecting his notebook from where it lived on his bedside table. “Just need the record of measurements Elizabeth had Will make of me, and then we can get to it, eh?”

Francis came to stand at James’ shoulder while he copied out the list onto a new page, his elbow gently knocking James’ side when he tilted his head to peek at James’ measurements.

“I say, are you using the precise length of my inseam to discern some hitherto unknown knowledge of me, sir?” James asked as he flicked between the pages, shooting Francis a wry look.

“I should think that I have little to learn about your inseam,” Francis said drily, unrepentant when James poked his arm with the blunt end of his pencil. 

“What a thing to say when I am about to ask you to strip to your shirtsleeves.”

Francis merely smiled as he shrugged off his frock coat, untied his lustrous blue silk cravat, then undid the cloth covered buttons of his patterned waistcoat, laying them on top of the chest of drawers behind him. They were both too thin, but Francis' more rugged build carried it far better than James' broad, sharp frame, and he took a moment to admire how fine a sight Francis still was in his loose white linen shirt and braces.

"What?" Francis asked, a faint frown pinching his brow as he watched James slip off his dark brown frock coat.

"A man might appreciate the sight of his lover," James told him, holding out the notebook and a second pencil before Francis could do more than gain a flush to his ears. "Now,” he said as he let the tape unravel, “if you keep track of it all, we shall have tea all the quicker.”

They set about it without any ceremony; Francis tried not to squirm or laugh when James measured about his neck, and both of them hummed in surprise when it turned out that Francis was an inch taller than either of them had thought. James wordlessly stepped back to allow Francis to measure about his own chest - a consideration of his person that Francis had never had to ask for, and James was always happy to give.

"We are making quicker work of it than I thought," Francis said as he watched James loop the tape about his upper arm.

“When you have destroyed as many uniforms as I have over the years, you come to know the ways of a tailor,” James said brightly, enjoying these unhurried, purposeful actions, and the easy way he and Francis moved about one another with an intimate familiarity. “Besides, Will managed it, and he doesn’t even know what a cotton reel looks like.”

Francis shook his head in the way of all sailors when met with the oddities of those who had never been midshipmen. "He is a good man, Mr Coningham.”

"Yes, he is rather a good sort," James smiled, Francis holding his arms awkwardly out of the way while James measured his waist, "he has had more patience and kindness for me than I have deserved at times. But I suppose that is how it is with family," James said frankly, fitting his palm to Francis’ side, fingers curling lightly against the soft Irish linen while he spoke. "You know, when Will came to Woolwich to see… to see those very fine ships of ours, he was quite disappointed to find that Sir James Ross was such a fashionable gentleman. You were far more like the worldly, worn explorer of his imagination."

It was no doubt a testament to their shared childhood, spent running about Rose Hill with visions of India and Alpine mountains in their heads, as James had also thought that the irregular fit of Francis attire - a tightness in a collar, an uneven fit in a waistcoat, a coat loose where it should not be - was the _déshabillé_ of a explorer. A mind turned to nobler matters than mere appearance; which, at times, was all James felt he had that made him of any worth in the world. 

Then, of course, after a year in Francis' increasingly brooding company, James thought it simply the sort of personal disorder that came with being a feckless drunk. A startling unprofessionalism that was not excused by all the reefs and riptides the world set about him for more than his masculinity; rather they lay neatly side by side, two causes that created an effect that did the man himself no justice.

“Besides,” James continued, aware of the sceptical look Francis was giving him as bent to measure about Francis’ seat, “he finds your company rather agreeable. As no other man has such a penchant for floral patterned or paisley waistcoats. Remarkable really,” James said as he shot a look up at Francis; glad to see the smile pulling at his mouth, but rather put out that he could not kiss it.

“Were _you_ not unreasonably pleased when you spent that morning unpacking my old waistcoats?”

“An unexpected Aladdin's cave of jewel like silks, old boy. All so perfectly fine and soft as - well silk I suppose.” James smiled, slipping his fingers between the measuring tape and Francis’ trousers when he straightened, feeling the warmth of his body through the velvety wool. “I always knew you had an eye, that greatcoat you had in the Arctic was very fine. It suited the breadth of your build very well,” James said, pressing the backs of his fingers to Francis’ abdomen. “Certainly enough to cause me a distraction or two."

"Did it now," Francis raised his articulate eyebrow even as he touched his fingers to James’ thigh. “Is that why you couldn’t get the ‘Fox’ to work?”

“It was, now you mention it. Bloody dip circle,” James shot back archly, moving his fingertips along the edge of Francis’ drop front fly.

A flush crept up beneath Francis’ undone collar as he looked down at the half forgotten notebook, his fidgeting hand stilling before he glanced back up at James, a glint in his eye. "There is only the inseam left, you know."

“ _Well_ ,” James smiled, tossing his greying hair from his eyes. “That could be taken as a rather brazen statement, Captain Crozier.”

“It could,” Francis agreed, letting out a surprised noise when James ducked his head to kiss him firmly. He placed his hand on James’ side to pull him close, fingers encroaching under the waistband of his trousers. James gasped at the touch, warmth spreading through him as his prick slowly twitched into life, causing him to sway into Francis before pulling away with a sigh.

"Not that I should ever object to kisses," James murmured, pressing his lips to Francis’ neck', "but ah- " he swallowed, shifting onto his back foot to swipe a pillow off his bed to drop at Francis’ feet, “let’s not get distracted so close to completion." 

“ _Christ_ ,” Francis muttered, either at James’ choice of words or because he had just knelt before Francis - even if his creaking knees made the motion rather stilted. Or maybe it was both. James simply sat on his heels and smiled up at Francis as he ran the tape through his hands to find the end.

He turned to the task of measuring around Francis’ right thigh, feeling him shift as he let his palm linger there. James smoothed his fingers over Francis’ inner thigh as he marked the measurement, then ran his his touch slowly upwards, glancing at Francis as he tucked his fingers against his crotch. He pressed more firmly than most tailors would ever dare (although as a midshipman James had a fellow or two try their luck); moving his hand just so and pulling a wonderful gasp from Francis as James bent to read the tape at where it touched the instep of Francis’ polished shoe.

“May I just say,” James said when he cast the tape away, turning his hand to knead firmly between Francis’ legs he sat up on his knees, “that this service is not available in a tailor’s shop,” he grinned, dropping a kiss to Francis’ stomach.

“I am very glad to hear that,” Francis laughed breathlessly, throat working when James flicked open the buttons of his fly.

“It is only my own decadence,” James whispered, pulling the tails Francis’ shirt out of the way so he could slip his hand into his trousers. He touched him with long, slow strokes at first, speeding up when Francis let out a heaving breath, James pulling more from him while trailing kisses over the soft white skin of Francis’ stomach and the line of his hip bone; breathing in the smell of clean sweat, and James’ violet soap he kept pilfering. Sighing to himself when Francis lay his hand on James’ head and pushed gently; a question asked more than a demand made.

"Yes," James breathed, giving Francis one last rub before pulling away. He tipped his head back into Francis’ hand when he bent over to kiss him, the action uncoordinated and open mouthed but James still groaned into it, grasping a handful of Francis’ trousers. A thrill of arousal shot through him when Francis dragged off James’ cravat so he could lay a tingling kiss to the spot beneath James’ jaw. 

James sat back on his heels when Francis straightened, pressing his hand against himself while he watched Francis undo his braces and push his trousers down to his knees. The crumpled tails of his shirt fell around the tops of Francis' thighs when he leant back against the chest of drawers; angling his hips just so and setting his feet further apart with such surety in what he wanted, such trust in James, that his prick twitched heavily in the confines of his smart brown trousers. James shuffled closer, trailing his lips over Francis’ left thigh while running his calloused palm up the other.

He had attended to Francis in this manner only a couple of times before. James was a quick learner, always had been, but he had not yet come to know exactly what Francis liked, and just how he liked it. Although, from the noise Francis made when James applied his mouth to him, he seemed to enjoy James’ unskilled attentions well enough.

Tipping his head back to accommodate the awkward angle, James grasped the back of Francis’ thigh as he sucked him, leaning into the movement when Francis rolled his hips against the swirling motions of his tongue. Francis lay his hand against the back of James’ head, the weight encouraging him closer, and James moaned, doing it again when the muscle in Francis’ thigh jumped.

_"_ Ah _,_ " Francis gasped when James reached between Francis' legs, " _fuck."_

He slipped his hand beneath the open collar of James' shirt, palm pressing between James’ shoulder-blades as he curled and rocked his fingers into Francis in time with the actions of his mouth. James worked him with close attention, lewd wet noises joined the groans and grunts that Francis was keeping behind his teeth until he was finally dashed on the breakers of his desire. Francis fell silent, tensing tightly and clenching about James’ slick fingers, nails digging into James’ skin as a great shudder ran through him.

James relented when Francis let out a sensitive noise, and let his hand fall from Francis’ thigh to rub at the hard line of his prick as he stretched the crook from his neck, wiping his face on his sleeve. 

“ _James_ ”, Francis breathed, his face flushed and glowing, hair dishevelled and expression dazed as he blinked down at him. “You are -” he began, shaking his head as he pushed himself upright before helping James to his feet; the two of them sharing a chuckle at how unsteady they were on their legs, James’ knee’s having gone numb while Francis’ were left weak in the wake of his pleasure. 

They fell into uneven kisses; Francis lazy and sated, while passion burned through James, his hips pressing into Francis stomach when he pulled him tight against him. “What would you like?” Francis asked, broad hand warm where it had found its way inside of James’ fashionably tight waistcoat, and James had enough sense left to feel a tinge bashful as he gave his bedside table a purposeful look.

“If the _accoutrement_ would be no trouble?” James said as he brushed their lips together, smiling when Francis laughed.

One could find all sorts of things in the winding streets around the East End docks, especially if you had enough money- be it opium, information, or flesh to act your desires upon, and the means to do it - and it was there that the clever device, kept in in a box in the bottom draw, had had come from. Its purchase had been thoroughly discussed beforehand; James tactfully calling it an _accoutrement_ , which had so appalled Francis that they’d had no choice but to laugh themselves to wheezing over it, thus robbing the polished wooden appendage of any shame or embarrassment. 

They ended up on James’ bed, both down to their shirts after kicking their trousers and shoes away, James’ tartan waistcoat left in the care of his bedpost. 

James had used his hair oil to ready himself, head turned to the side and heels planted on the mattress while curling his fingers just slowly enough to make his breath catch. Francis was kneeling between his feet and James watched him adjust the leather belts about his hips, heat tingling in his gut whenever Francis’ blue eyes lingered on him. James pulled his hand from between his legs when Francis moved close, cradling him between his thighs as Francis lay into his embrace, tilting his chin for a kiss that was readily given when Francis slowly, carefully, sank into him.

James dropped his head back with a sign when Francis was seated, crossing his ankles against Francis' lower back as he was thoroughly, gently made love to. Francis kissing his neck and face while running a hand over his thigh and up his side, asking "is this all right?" as he grasped James’ prick that had been leaking against his stomach; whispering sweet nothings against James’ temple and his cheek and his neck until James was in a whirl of delight, overcome and overwhelmed.

* ***** *

It was only because he was listening for the click of the parlour door that James heard it above little Lizzie’s French recitation. 

She paused at the same time as James turned, peering at the door around Will, who - because he was a frightful bohemian at times - had perched on the arm of his settee to listen to his daughter. He also turned, and James could surmise that Elizabeth had looked that way also, judging by the slightly pained look on Francis' face.

"Captain Crozier, does everything fit as it should?" Elizabeth aske as she crossed the room, her wide skirts rustling against the carpet. “I allowed room in some measurements as I thought it might suit you better, as - if you will pardon my forthrightness - you are not of an abruptly angular frame."

“Think Bess means you, Fitz,” Will whispered to James, who made it clear he was ignoring him.

"I have only tried what I am now wearing," Francis admitted, running his hand down the front of his blue and green striped paisley waistcoat which James could tell fitted him better than it ever had before; the bottom edge laying straight against his fashionably fitted trousers, sweeping in a smooth line over his trim waist until it disappeared under the lapels of his deep sky blue frock coat. There was less stiffness in his posture than was usual in company, a ease about him that looked very well indeed, James thought. “But all appears very fine indeed, Mrs Coningham. You have been kind and most generous, thank you.”

“You are most welcome, captain. I shall have everything else sent over this evening.” Elizabeth smiled when Francis made to thank her again, “it is the very least that we can do. It is not seemly to have brave men merely flung out into the world after _six years_ away.”

She reached out to neaten his cuff with the perfunctory motion of a mother as Lizzie called ’ _Captain Crozier_ ’ in a reedy voice, the child spoken over by Will responding to his wife; “Quite right, even though I did little more than locate dropped pins. I shall toast your continued good health, and Fitz’s, when tea arrives.”

Francis nodded stiffly, fiddling with his watch chain, and James was about to step in to save him from the attention of the whole room when Lizzie appeared at her mothers side and declared, with all the boldness of a ten year old, “Captain Crozier, I am reciting my french poem that I have been learning. Would you care to listen?”

“My dear,” Elizabeth chided softly as Will laughed.

“I cannot claim to be an expert in French, Miss Coningham,” Francis said gently, his demeanour gentling just like it did around Sir James Ross’ children.

“That’s quite all right,” Lizzie said cheerfully as she led Francis to the settee, “only Uncle James speaks it well.”

Francis’ arm brushed against James’ as he was seated beside him, a faintly pleased look in his eye. James nodded to him, smiled - which was all he dare do to compliment Francis, lest his earnestness become embarrassing and revealing - and they turned their attention to Lizzie as she began again from the beginning; 

“ _Maître Corbeau, sur un arbre perché,_

_Tenait en son bec un fromage._

_Maître Renard, par l'odeur alléché,_

_Lui tint à peu près ce langage :_

_"Hé ! Bonjour, Monsieur du Corbeau._

_Que vous êtes joli ! Que vous me semblez beau…”_

  
  


' _How beautiful you seem to me,'_ was a simple sentiment. An easily given compliment. But James had to wait until they had finished their tea and the hours of chatter they seemed to get through every visit, before he could say so. For greatcoats to be donned, scarves to be wrapped around necks, and gloves fished out of pockets. For the streets of genteel houses to have disappeared behind the trees of Regents park, James’ hand tucked into Francis’ elbow as they walked the familiar path home. 

“How do you feel, to be cutting a dash?” James murmured, leaning into Francis. 

"I've never been capable of that," Francis smiled, eyes turned to the path home. "They are only clothes, although they do feel more fine than when I handed them to Mrs Coningham three weeks ago," he was silent for a moment. "I thought I might be uncomfortable, to be so -" he made to adjust his waistcoat, but stopped himself. "But I feel myself, if you know my meaning.”

“I do.”

“Which is not always an easy thing."

"Oh, and I do know something about that, too," James murmured, squeezing Francis' arm. "You have an ease to you that pleases me to see. More so than how very handsome you look, sir. Which also pleases me."

"You sound very pleased all round," Francis commented, pressing James' hand against his side. 

"I am rather," he said, letting his cane swing from his fingers. "If you are pleased, Francis?"

Francis looked about the park; at the grey sky and bare trees, the muddy grass and sparse lake. Then slid his eyes to James, who felt his cold nipped cheeks flushed at the honesty he found there. "I am, very much."

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Very minor discussion of FJ feeling strange in himself as he is so thin from the Arctic still. Allusions made to Francis' discomfort with parts of himself (chest mainly), but there is no big dysphoria or dysmorphia feelings. 
> 
> The poem is a french children's poem by Jean de al Fontaine, and learning it at school was the last time I was good at French.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


End file.
